


A Tremor

by SrebrnaFH



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternative Season 3, Canon Divergence, Injury, John is Smarter than he looks, John is sceptical, Magic, Medical, Mycroft is a good brother, Post-Reichenbach, Stephen explains stuff, Two men of science talking about magic, Under reconstructions, Under review, Work was in progress and then I had to go back and fix stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-06-12 03:36:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15330861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH
Summary: Two doctors meet in a bar.A long, fruitful and very much needed relationship comes as the effect.Warning: under rewrite to bring it from present tense to past. No content will change, just phrasing of some sentences.





	1. Two doctors

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of people try to put Everett and Stephen together, because apparently JohnLock is more powerful than anything in the universe. But Everett and Stephen have NOTHING in common.  
> Stephen and John, on the other hand...

“A tremor?”

He reached out to grasp his glass and his left hand shook.

“A tremor” he confirmed.

“Nerve damage?”

“Shot in the shoulder” he tapped the spot on his chest hesitantly. “The shot itself… well, I survived. The infection, however, that’s another story.”

Two large, scarred hands grasped his left and turned it palm up, setting his glass aside. Fingers traced the tendons and joints. He shivered, looking away. He didn't like people touching the proof of his inability to be who he was supposed to be.

“Trauma surgeon?”

He nodded tersely, but the man only hummed and released his hand.

“Neurosurgeon” the other offered quietly, laying his long-fingered hands palm up on the dark wood of the bar. “Car crash. Everything cut up in little pieces.”

He glanced at the scarring and turned the other man’s hands this way and that, marvelling at their perfect steadiness.

“You had good people working on them” he sighed. “I wish…”

The other man shook his head, dark hair dancing.

“There are ways back” the man said slowly. “But only at a great cost.”

His left hand shook as he tensed.

“I’m guessing we’re not talking money here.”

“That would be correct.”


	2. Stephen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, well. This wasn't supposed to have a continuation, because I had no idea what to put here.  
> I need to re-watch Doctor Strange to make sure I'm not messing something up.  
> Also, timelines here are a mess, because I'm seeing post-fall, pre-return John here.

“I know it will seem like a bunch of mystical bullshit now, but trust me, it actually makes sense.”

“Believe me, Stephen. Whatever you want to show me, I’ve probably seen weirder.”

The tall man raised a sardonic eyebrow.

“Believe me, John, I’ve thought so, too. And then I learned better.”

He sighed.

“Stephen, I  _died_. I was knocking on the bloody pearly gates. They dragged me back to life at the last second. I’ve regained my basic mobility because I met a madman who…” he squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away. “Well, I’ve seen stuff. I’ve done  _things_. Stephen, unless you want to tell me that magic is real, nothing will surprise me.  _Nothing_.”

Stephen Strange smiled in a way that said “oups”.

“Oups” John gasped finally, awash with understanding. “Really? That’s your explanation? Magic? I’m a man of  _science_ , Stephen. I’m not going to be… hoodwinked into believing some second-rate carnival crap.”

The neurosurgeon in front of him shook his head slowly.

“I didn’t want to believe it either, John. I promise, this is true. Truest that can be in this world. I’ve travelled to Kathmandu to look for a simple  _cure_  and instead, I found…” he grimaced, trying to find a word. “If I say I found my calling, you will think I’m crazy and I’ve joined a cult, right?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely” John growled softly. “Now, either you tell me what it is that you’re peddling or I walk out of here.”

Stephen sighed, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose.

“We need more people” he said, at last, to John’s stony face. “ _I_  need more people, because our ranks were decimated. You… You felt  _correct_. That’s why I asked you about the tremor. That, and you seem like a guy - and I’m being honest here - who has little to lose.”

“So? I could probably find other places that have a need for a man like me and could use my skills” John clenched his jaw, because he knew very well how sparse were his chances for employment right then.

Stephen Strange looked John Watson in the eye and reached out, catching his hand.

“But how many of them will offer you what  _you_  need, John?”

His face was pinched as, cautiously, he asked in a wavering voice, “And what do I need, Stephen? What can you offer me?”

“Healing, Doctor. And a new war to fight, Captain. So. You in?”

John Watson shrugged.

_A new war. Sounds promising._


	3. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More progress in studying.

John turned out to be a pretty deft warlock.

Better than deft.

Stephen suspected that the combination of medical knowledge and soldier's experience, coupled with whatever-that-was that John had been doing after retiring from the army gave John a particular set of capabilities that fed his budding magical abilities to much higher levels than Stephen had ever expected.

He didn't foresee John Watson to ever become a High Master - or whatever it would be now that it was only the three of them studying the Ancient Arts - but he could envision him as a skilled, efficient commander and leader in the field.

Whenever they got around to recruiting enough lower-rank warriors, of course.

Now, dressed appropriately and armed with the Bow and Arrows of Apollon (which had nearly demolished the case they had been kept in when John came too close to them) he was practising his aim with that ancient weapon, easily switching shooting hands every five attempts, steadily gaining equal fluidity of movement in both arms.

The tremor was gone.

 

#

 

It had taken John Watson, MD, a few days to accept Stephen Strange's explanation of what was the potential future in front of him. He had left the room, came back, went to make tea and again came back, left for a walk around the nearest park (bashing in the face of some luckless pickpocket) and came back.

Finally, he sat in silence, hid his face in his hands and nodded.

"I'll listen" he said in a broken voice. "Just... Stephen, keep to the facts. No ideology, no myths, unless they explain something real and vital."

Stephen easily acquiesced.

He felt Wong's disapproval all the way across the Sanctum, but who better than one man of science to explain the facts of magic to another man of science? He _knew_ what worked for him. He was pretty sure the same would work for John. Irrefutable proof of having lived through it himself would be the best.

And so it worked.

John Watson didn't _convert_ to the idea of magic as much as he expanded his horizon to include the potential for magic to be available in the world. This way he could insert that new knowledge between items that he had already internalised, like the surety of his scientific method, the way he looked at people and the small voice inside that read their tells for him, the solidity of a non-nonsense English male who had never experienced such flights of fancy before.

Stephen hadn't really been expecting a breakthrough, but the morning after he had proved to John that he wasn't lying he found his - student? journeyman? trainee? - at the library, perusing an ancient script and watching the slightly restless relics vibrate in their places.

John looked up at him, his eyes shadowed and face greyish and smiled in his special, lop-sided way.

"I think I can do this" the soldier said, biting his lip. "There is... logic behind this. Logic is good."

 

#

 

Stephen nodded, watching John hit the target again and again.

London Sanctum finally had gained a proper guardian and the lost soul of John Watson would wander aimlessly no more.

Just a few more days with his new friend - and Stephen was happy to call the man so, to his surprise - and John would be ready to strike out on his own. London Sanctum was in dire need of care and the cache of relics still there was of tremendous size.

A man of solid morals and high determination, John fit the bill perfectly.

Stephen smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wish I had enough talent to draw John in his warlock robes ;p


	4. Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is not happy.

Mycroft Holmes was not annoyed, as such.

He was slightly perturbed.

John Watson had disappeared from London and it had been for three months already that he had had to lie to his brother regarding the wellbeing of his ex-flatmate. His chances of keeping this up much longer were, frankly speaking, nonexistent.

John Watson had flown to the U.S. for a medical conference (his clinic gave him "time off" for re-training after his long absence - Mycroft guessed that it was more due to John's ex's sympathy than some kind of misguided hope that Doctor Watson may be coming back to work anytime soon).

And then he had disappeared. A notification that he was following an alternative course of therapy was sent to the surgery a week later and so he was put "on prolonged unpaid leave", to the apparent relief of the surgery head doctor.

Mycroft wasn't sure if the woman was so easily fooled or if she just didn't want to see the obvious.

Adding to it the fact that he had not seen John Watson on any kind of security footage (and the American surveillance had been provided to him upon his kind request) for the last two months, he was... worried.

"We've received the information you've asked for. The house..."

Anthea seemed uncomfortable. It was never a good thing.

"177 Bleecker Street, yes. What about it?"

"I belongs to some kind of Hong Kong-based operation. It's declared as a multinational non-profit, receives no donations and produces next to no paperwork. The board members are all Chinese and Nepalese nationals..." her voice wavered. Just a bit. "Apart from one American, Stephen Vincent Strange. Who is also currently the holder of a sheaf of attorney-confirmed authorisations, including the rights to manage the properties in New York, Kathmandu, Hong Kong and _London_."

He raised an eyebrow.

_London?_

She shrugged and pointed to her phone.

_London._

"Location of the property?"

She placed a document on his desk and he firmly squashed the need to whistle.

"So, has doctor Watson had any prior acquaintance with Mr Strange?"

"Ah" she emitted a sound that made the hair at the back of his neck stand. "Not per se... But it's not _Mister_ Strange, it's _Doctor_ Strange. A neurologist who had lost the ability to perform his job due to a car accident."

He straightened.

"Who is that Strange person?" he queried incredulously. "I need full data, everything. What is his sock size, what are his allergies, _everything_."

Anthea inhaled sharply.

"Yes, sir. Of course."

Mycroft hated this situation and hoped to hear soon about John Watson coming back home to grieve some more. Not that he wished the man to grieve, as such. But if John Watson was sitting in his tiny flat and being despondent, at least Mycroft Holmes _would know_ where John Watson was and could report on his continued existence to his brother.

 

#

 

In slightly over two months - making it a full half year since his disappearance - John Watson made Mycroft Holmes wish he had never met the little soldier. John Watson disembarked from a plane on the Heathrow airport and promptly disappeared. In London. In Mycroft Holmes' own city, under the watchful eye of Mycroft's own CCTV cameras.

Which made the elder Holmes antsy.

He would never admit it, but he was prone to the feeling when someone got back into the country, went through all the steps of border control, left the airport and vanished into the thin air.

What was even worse, the house identified as belonging to the organisation apparently controlled by Stephen Strange (and the scarcity of data available on that individual rankled Mycroft to no end) was being put in use again. There were people coming and going, food delivery (mostly takeaway from various places all over the city), new contracts for power, water and rubbish removal.

He sat, grinding his teeth, at his desk, perusing the surveillance footage from the airport yet again, watching John Watson walk to the passport control and hand in his documents, pick up the mid-sized bag, sling the laptop bag over his shoulder and walk towards the taxi stands.

Walk. Straight, unencumbered by the limp (the limp that Sherlock had supposedly healed, but which still returned from time to time and which had very obviously troubled John since Sherlock's fall). His both hands had been visible on the screen, in high resolution, and no trace of a tremor was in evidence.

Mycroft sighed and rewound the short clip. There had to be _something_ that John did. He wasn't on the airport - he had actually been seen in the city, by various persons who had reported it to Mycroft - and he had retrieved his possessions from storage (they had been removed from his tiny flat by his landlord, upon John's request). He had even visited Mrs Hudson and removed some of his things from 221B.

All of this _and_ he avoided all cameras on his way.

Mycroft had received and made use of access to John's army files, but apart from a few items blacked out from his official records (his marksmanship results, a few more trainings than even a field medic should receive and a medal or two still awaiting official release) there was nothing in them that would suggest the man had been trained as a bloody _ninja_. And that was what Mycroft had personally started to suspect, actually.

Also, someone had been _dressing_ John Watson.

Not only had he been seen outside in something more upscale than his denims and button-ups, he had actually been seen in a properly-fitted _suit_. The military haircut was back and witnesses had reported that he was now sporting a long, thin scar going from his cheek up into the close-shorn hair, just above his right ear. It made him seem even more distinguished, apparently.

All the reports, all the suppositions, all the uncertainty was getting to Mycroft. He was more than unsure of what he should do next, but he couldn't just leave this alone.

Especially when his observers report that Watson had been seen in the company of a tall, dark stranger who looked eerily like the photo he had of one Stephen Strange, when there was no record of Stephen Strange having crossed the British border.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We'll ignore the unfortunate similarity of Stephen and Sherlock and Mycroft will not have a sudden heart attack when he meets Dr Strange one day ;)


	5. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in London. Visiting 221.

London Sanctum was in dire need of a lot of repairs.

Of course, having been demolished and then brought back by Stephen, the building itself was still in perfect condition, so John didn't have to do a lot to ensure the soundness of the structure (thankfully) but simple neglect of all these months since it had been attacked had brought certain amount of common disorder to be removed.

The fine control over his powers got a proper test right there, each day. He progressed slowly from room to room, putting them all to rights - books back where they belong, dust to the bin, traces of rodents the same way, rodents themselves out of the building... He patched up the pieces where the building (sanctum or not) had given in to the simple reality of being a building in a city that undergoes vibrations of everything around it. He ensured a lack of leaks, checked for potential roof problems and carefully unclogged the gutters.

He _learnt_  his new home.

He _made_  it his home.

He had access to the funds collected by the organisation Stephen was now a default leader of (and John himself was the third of, which was why it was so funny to think of them as an _organisation_ ) and so he used them to refurbish the most affected parts of the building, set up services and food delivery. He had been ordered by Stephen to use the "personal" part of the funds for his own purposes, up to and including - here the neurosurgeon poked at the tear in his jacket - filling his wardrobe with something more appropriate.

He had his warlock clothes, of course, but unlike Stephen, who was accepted as local weirdo in New York, John Watson had an image to uphold in London, so he couldn't be just seen gallivanting about the city in the fighting robe and trousers. At least he didn't have a possessive and slightly obsessive cape that would feel hurt if he had left it at home. Stephen's Cloak sometimes behaved like a puppy, including sulking in a corner on the rare occasions when Stephen had to be out of the house without attracting too much attention.

Well, John could definitely make use of the funds allocated to him - as a caretaker of the London Sanctum he was supposed to look properly and visiting the lawyers in his old army jacket and scuffed brogues would only be asking for ridicule.

So he did make use of them and went out to order an appropriate range of clothing - after living with Sherlock for all these months he could judge for himself which of the establishments had a proper offer (and which would try to swindle him) and a little gift from the New York sanctum, a small medallion found by Stephen, ensured he could focus better on applying his second-hand detecting knowledge on people he met. Combining these allowed him to find a not-so-big, but still respectable little tailor shop, staffed by a few men of age similar to his, who accepted his explanation of "inheritance and need of proper attire" and took care of everything for a price that doesn't make him cringe. Not a lot at least.

He sent the photos of their suggestions over to Stephen, partly as a joke, but partly to let his boss - because he had to be honest with himself, he was a Warlock and Stephen was the Great Master - know he was taking his recommendations seriously.

The days after his grand shopping trip were spent on reestablishing himself in London, reviewing all the old haunts with a new eye and locating potential magical disturbances (the amount of magical shit on the Tube surprised him, actually, and there was something about the M25 London Orbital that made his skin crawl, so he decided to investigate it further at some point). He even visited Mrs Hudson, who cried at the sight of him and scolded him about not showing his face for half a year. He gave her the same story he told everyone - pursuing new therapy methods - and showed her his steady, perfectly working hands.

"So... are you going back to being a surgeon, then?" she sipped her tea and watched him over the rim of her cup.

He let his fingers curl around the warm china.

"Still thinking about it," he hesitated. "But I've let my license lapse, so I would have to recertify and take all the exams... It depends. For the time being, I'm taking care of some business for a friend who helped me with the therapy, and managing a few things with his lawyers here."

"A friend, you say" she sighed. "So you have... moved on?"

He frowned for a moment in incomprehension and then caught up.

"Oh, no, Mrs Hudson. No. Stephen is... he helped me so much with this," he flexed his fists. "He is a neurosurgeon, you see," he didn't explain that the help had been very much not related to Stephen's profession.

"Ah, a fellow doctor then" she nodded and smiled. "You have a lot in common, I suppose?"

"In a matter of speaking, I suppose we do. He went through the same thing - up to and including PTSD, just his is not from the war - so he helped me along when I was... well, retraining to use my hands properly. Now I can walk and run, better than ever since the uni, I think. I have a little job to do for him here - he can't fly between the States and London a lot, and he has a house in London that needs taking care of, so he asked me to manage all the affairs here."

She put her cup down slowly and looked at him with her ancient eyes.

"John Watson. You met a man overseas, who helped you to regain the proper use of your hands, who asks you to manage his house when he can't be there and who makes you... happy. I'm not sure you see the parallels, but _I_ do. Just make sure to send me an invitation to your wedding."

He breathed deeply, calmed himself forcefully and smiled.

"Stephen is more like... like an older brother or a teacher to me, Mrs Hudson. I'm working for him, nothing more. Yes, we became friends, but not _that_ close."

"M-hm" she made a little satisfied sound. "Bring him around when he visits. I want to see who John Watson is now associating with."

He smiled again. Just a bit.

He would indulge her fantasies, but he would not be bringing the Master of Secret Arts to 221A for tea. Mrs Hudson was his old life, one he wanted very much to stay separated from his new one.

Captain John Watson, MD was not the same as John Watson, Minor Master of the Mystic Arts, First Warlock of London, Keeper of the London Sanctum. And he intended very much to keep the two isolated. If he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course Mrs Hudson would assume... ;)


	6. Stephen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stephen comes for a visit and a walk in a park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote two chapters in a row this week.  
> Really need to rewatch Doctor Strange though, I need more inspiration for this one.

Stephen showed up unannounced, but John knew he was coming. The vibrations along the web he had set up all throughout the house woke him up in the middle of the night and led him to the library.

"You've cleaned up," the taller man said, nodding in appreciation. "This place holds so much of the old knowledge, it would have been a shame to just leave it as it was. Looks much better now than the last time I saw it."

John leaned on the wall and watched Stephen trailing his fingers across the backs of the books.

"And what did it look like then?"

"Exploding."

They both snorted, but refrained from anything more as Stephen pulled out a few books.

"You should study these. They mostly pertain to local history, but may explain certain... nuances of London magical fields. It will allow you to find places in which your abilities will be enhanced by local concentration of power. By the way, have you noticed that the whole city is surrounded by a death sigil? The orbital has been arranged to simulate the functionalities of a prayer wheel."

John blinked.

"Wh... Yea, well, I knew something was wrong about it, but didn't really dig deeper."

"We'll take care of it later. It's not very pressing. The city is still there, despite the time that has passed since the roads have been built, and it's not like it has reached any kind of alarming concentration of _bad_. Now, what about the lawyers? Everything went fine?"

They quickly went over the mundane business of property management and then took a walk through the parks of the city, letting Stephen experience the way London felt when it was not under attack.

"It will be a good time for you, John, I hope. In your... previous life, you met a lot of people. You are missing it. You could go back to it, you know? Your skills as a warlock will help you immensely. And with that little trinket I gave you you should be better than you ever were."

He straightened in his new tweed suit.

"I was never very good at that, actually" he said slowly. "It was all him."

"I've read your blog."

This sentence hang between them for a long, heavy moment.

"And?"

"And I think you undersell yourself. Warlock Watson."

"I wasn't a warlock at the time, Master."

"You were a beginning of one. You had something in you that allowed you to become what you are now. If you didn't have it, no training would have allowed you to become one of us. Everyone can learn to master themselves, but not everyone can master the world around them and themselves at the same time. You do it very well. And you are a bloody good shot, if I may say. That cabbie case? You saved your friend's life."

John glared at him for a moment.

"He said he had worked out which pill was poisoned. That he would have been fine."

They sat in silence for a few heartbeats.

"He wouldn't have" John sighed finally. "Oh, Sherlock. He didn't _really_ know, did he?"

Stephen nodded slowly.

A sound approached them, one that made the hair on John's neck slowly rise.

"Stephen..."

"I see him. Brother?"

"Correct."

A tap of the umbrella tip on the tarmac of the park lane.

"Doctor Watson, fancy meeting you here."

"Mycroft" he nodded in greeting. "Nice to see you. I hoped you would show up one day."

"Would you care to introduce me to your... friend?"

John smiled affably. Why not behave properly, after all.

"Mycroft, Stephen Strange. Stephen, Mycroft Holmes. I told Stephen about you, and I suppose you have a dossier on him, so I'm not going to go into details. Stephen is visiting to check on his London property. Mycroft is accosting us to learn more about you, Stephen. Anything I missed?" he cocked his head a bit to the left. "Lost a few pounds, I suppose. Don't go too far, you don't really need to and you will collapse of hypoglycemia if you keep this up. You could actually afford to eat more, if you balance the carbs properly. Give me a call one of these days, I will write out a nice daily menu for you, if you wish. Also, stop trying to cover the grey hair, it doesn't work and it makes them weaker. And..." he frowned and focused on Mycroft's right hand. "Did you have this cleaned recently?"

The British Government _winced_.

"Take it off, right now, before the reaction gets even worse. Go to the medical - I know you have someone in your office - and ask for some ointment to put on this. And get the ring rinsed properly, there is a residue of the cleaning solution on it."

He heard Stephen leaning forward and hissing on an inhale, but didn't lose his focus.

"Also, less caffeinated tea. One in the morning and try to switch to lemon water for the rest of the day. It will not be as fun, but better to your heart. And for God's sake, go to your optometrist, you are _squinting_ at me right now."

"John..."

They stared at each other in silence for a moment.

"Thank you" the older man said finally. "I'll... I'll call you next week then. Would that be fine?"

"Acceptable. My mobile number is still the same."

"Very well. Good day to you, gentlemen."

"See you, Mycroft."

Stephen nodded and watched the retreating figure intently.

"So... the most powerful person in London, yes?"

John shrugged, slowly relaxing on the bench, turning his face to the afternoon sun.

"I suppose so."

"You know it's not true, actually."

He raised an eyebrow in silent enquiry.

"He is _de facto_ the _third_ most powerful person in London right now."

They snorted again, in unison.

"OK, _Master_. You would be the first then. Who would you count as the second? The Queen?"

Stephen's smile was small and slightly sad.

"Ah, John Watson. I hope you will never change, my friend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How do you like a little bit of slightly shaken Mycroft?
> 
>  
> 
> [You can find me on tumblr.](https://srebrnafh.tumblr.com/)


	7. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John cares for his city and survives, from day to day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit I'm writing this as I go. Not really sure what is going to happen to this story, except for general vague list of ideas that you can find in the comments on first chapters.  
> If you have any suggestions, I'm eager to hear them :) It will not be "write on request" kind of story, because there ARE some points I want to cover, but hey, I'm happy to be inspired by your comments :)

It is painful, to go about his normal duties and have the outside life in the city.

Some days, he just wants to curl up in the bedroom upstairs, far away from everything, and cry over the lost chances.

Some days he wants to jump there, to open a portal to 221B, to see the flat again, to sit in his chair and wait for Sherlock to walk in through the door.

Some days he considers the logistics of shooting yourself dead with magical bow and arrows.

Yet he perseveres.

Stephen needs him and he needs Stephen and Wong and there is a new duty, a new frontier to defend. New enemy and new kind of danger.

There are quiet, peaceful weeks, when he dresses simply, pulls on a jumper and meets Lestrade for a pint. They always keep a small glass of whisky on their table, silently admitting the absence they feel deeply.

There are weeks when the magical field of London acts up and there is a lot of running around and putting out magical fires - and then equal amount of running around and solving crimes that were caused by the echoes of magical disturbances. He sometimes joins Lestrade at the crime scenes, providing his insight - such as it is - and medical expertise.

Sometimes he meets Mycroft - or people he identifies as belonging to Mycroft - as they try to cover the mundane part of the equation. He usually tries to be seen as little as possible, so that they don't start making some idiotic investigation, but of course they sometimes catch a sight of him. He usually jumps back to the townhouse again, making sure to clean up the magical remnants so that standard mortals didn't get hurt. Probably none of them appreciate his carefulness, but he can't just let some out-of-dimension crap litter his streets, can he?

Sometimes he thinks he, Mycroft and Lestrade move in some kind of weird dance. He covers the mystical, Mycroft the high-level and Lestrade the everyday type of problem. They come into a conflict from time to time, when someone from more magical section turns to non-magical crime, but that, usually, can also be resolved.

It's worse when magical items or objects are used in bigger scale projects, like the one that had almost blown the Parliment in eerie reenactment of the Gunpowder Plot. That November many agents get promoted, several people get rescued from fires (apparently slotted to become human sacrifices) and the Yard spends two weeks chasing a gang of textile shop robbers who leave severed female fingers on the counter of each store. John is running ragged, which makes him less than useful to Lestrade, yet still they manage to identify the break-ins as revenge and threats on behalf of some very badly treated textile workers and the severed fingers are found to have been frozen for months before being used to terrorise the shops who buy their stock from companies profiting of slave labour.

Sometimes John sneaks outside, joining Stephen and Wong - and a few of their young padawans - in the New York Sanctum for some weapon practice and late night discussions on the more advanced topics - like mirror dimensions, the logic behind the usage of Eye of Agamoto, Dormamu and people who would gladly bring the chaos to rule in our dimension.

Stephen is much more relaxed these days and he seems to have even better grip on his magic - in fact, he overdoes it a bit from time to time and John feels tempted to tell him off for being such a showoff, but decides to leave that to Wong.

Every time he comes back - a weekend here, a free day there - he feels tempted to ask Stephen to check something for him with the Eye.

Every time he backs off.

Until the day when Stephen visits him in the library of the London Sanctum and just sits down in front of John, across the heavy reading table.

"It's been a year" Stephen says without any preamble. "You've been training with us for a year, Warlock Watson. You have gained a vast amount of knowledge both arcane and mundane, you've restored several important artifacts to our ownership, you've fought by my side and you've worked with Wong. You've covered the more pedestrian parts of caring for the London Sanctum to perfection. You've studied the ancient texts for all and any answers to afflictions common to the human body. But you've also researched whatever the texts describe that would be in general direction of modern psychiatry."

He sighs and replaces the thick volume on the table. Stephen is way too observant, just like that other lanky git.

"John, I understand that you wish to... to find out what happened. We all would. But if you bury yourself too much in the past, you may miss a warning of a new danger coming your way. Please remember that. We are stretched as it is - me keeping the Americas under control, Wong training the young ones - we need you to make sure the Old Continent is being correctly monitored."

He scrubs his face and taps the cover of the book with his short - perfectly steady - fingers.

"I'm trying to work through Sherlock's death" he says finally, voice somewhat empty and broken. "I still... I know he was true. He wasn't faking his Work - something pushed him into that last discussion and I can't for the life of me imagine what."

Stephen cocks his head a bit to the side, but only smiles sadly.

"Would you like me to make a few... checks?"

And John looks at him in astonishment.

"You mean, what exactly?"

Stephen palms the Orb on the chain fastened around his neck.

"I will not allow you to use it by yourself. The first time I held it... No. But tell me what aspect of your life you wish me to explore. I will follow it - a few times, making slight changes, to see the options."

"But how would that help me with the _past_?"

Stephen shrugs fluidly, his long form expressive in such a simple movement.

"I could check, for example, if I can find any reasonable future in which your friend is exonerated. Or in which people find out that the man you were hunting was a real criminal. Or I could look along the lines of you living in more peaceful manner..." his cocked eyebrow signals a bit of his merriment - why would he be amused? - and his nails tap the pendant. "What do you choose?"

John needs to look away, to collect his thoughts, but he can't. The Eye forces him to focus on it, and so he thinks just for a franction of a second.

"Sherlock's name. Is there anything I can do that will not endanger the Sanctum, but will help clearing his name."

 

#

 

As the outcome, he spends more time with Mycroft than he would have ever judged sane - especially considering that the man's idea of light conversation is what in civilised countries is qualified as "interrogation under duress". Yet, it gives more than satisfactory result and they are both rather happy of the outcome they have produced - complete and shame-filled retraction of all the articles about Sherlock, in-depth investigation into Richard Brook (doesn't exist), Kitty Riley (was first paid and then blackmailed into helping Moriarty) and several other journalists (have received anonymous tips in mail and a variety of 'evidence' onto their desks) and several big public apologies. None from the Superintendent, though, but John wasn't really that intent on hearing it. It would have been nice, yes, but Stephen has said that in cases where the Super would apologise, some other crucial part would go awry, even up to upsetting their whole work.

He visits Mrs Hudson on regular basis now, sometimes even just to hear her talk about something normal people do.

He feels now, to the depth of his soul, how lonely Sherlock must have been. He watches people, he _sees_ them differently now, with the added perspective of his training and the artifacts that are helping him to track the magical fields around the city. He sees the way laylines are affecting the traffic, the pools of energy attract people, the simple everyday magic of not-so-mundane practitioners, the danger that lives in dark corners..

_Was this how Sherlock saw it? His mind might not have been trained to see the mystical layer on our reality, but he saw more than others. He didn't see the energies around people, but still he did see better than a common man._

He looks outside, a cup of Mrs Hudson's tea warming his hands and her gentle scolding a sound filling in background. He keeps track of what she says - nodding and providing an appropriate reaction when needed - but his senses are spreading outside. He touches the corners of the building - safe, secure, stable. He checks the roof, the windows - not wandering too close to the upper flat - all sound and whole.

"Yes, I admit, it's a terrible business" he says, smiling, as she shakes her head over some newsline. "I am working with DCI Lestrade on this."

In the wake of Sherlock's name being cleared, there had been some movement in the ranks of the Met and suddenly a lot of papers have been found documenting Lestrade's held back promotions and awards. What, combined with his diligent work with John recently, gave him a significant boost up in ranks.

"These poor boys" she shakes her head. "What do you think, John?"

"Someone is trying to recreate one of Crowley's sex rituals, but with an added twist of rather gory bloodshed. No idea where they get this crap from, but Greg is now having people check all the so-called occult bookshops in the city."

"W-what?" Mrs Hudson's voice breaks just a bit. "A _sex ritual_? Where do you... I mean, why would..."

"I was _really_ bored at some points of my therapy" he allows himself a small smile. It's not _exactly_ a lie, reading Crowley's biography _was_ terribly boring.

"Ah. That's useful, I suppose" she sighs into her tea. "I wish..."

"Yes, so do I. You should call in a handyman to fix that window in the basement, by the way. It's not closing properly and it's visible from the street, someone may try to break in."

She startles slightly.

"Which one?"

 

#

 

They walk to the C flat, but there is nothing wrong with it - despite the slight damp that is always present, the flat doesn't seem to be too bad. He pushes the window closed and secures it with a loop of wire to make sure it stays shut until the repairman comes.

"Did you ever think about having this fixed up? Maybe bring in a dehumidifier and see if you can get this dry? It is a risk to your own health, you know, if something starts growing here..."

He walks through the empty rooms, carefully skirting around the spot where the old trainers were once resting.

"It could be a nice place for someone who just needs to sleep here and spends a lot of time outside, you know. There is space for books..." he muses out loud and she nods affably. "Well, if you ever consider making this work, ring me up, I will find you a good contractor and we'll make Mycroft check their references. And, oh..."

There is something.

A slight pressure on the building wall, due to a tiny pocket of lost energy, accumulating... Of course, water.

He puts his hand on the spot in the wall and pulls.

The sigh of relief from the house - and the one next to it - is overwhelming. In grand scale, it feels like pulling out something that had been stuck between his teeth. The area is still worried and inflamed, but no longer pressured physically.

"Well, yeah. A team. To properly dry this, scrape the old paint, maybe paint it bright yellow, you know? Like in these glossies about home improvement? Add some bright coloured rugs and you should be able to rent it out in a month."

Yeah. Big things from outer space that want to eat our reality and small puddles of power that make it hard for an older lady to rent out a flat. Warlock Watson, keeper of the London Sanctum, finder of lost kittens, fixer of underground pools and holder of the Bow of Apollon.

It feels good. Not as good as he used to feel, all these years ago, but good enough for him to smile, from time to time.

They walk upstairs, with Mrs Hudson chattering the entire time, apparently already planning the improvements he had suggested. Good, it will give her something to focus on, because...

He sighs and sits in the kitchen, leaving some part of his attention on Mrs Hudson but casting a larger part as a kind of net, trying to relieve the tension that has been worrying him ever since he has arrived this morning.

It's not there, but something... Something is coming.

He just wishes this time it won’t have tentacles in place of the face, he is a bit tired of these.


	8. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Mycroft have a little, honest conversation.

He would have never suspected Mycroft Holmes of sentimentality, but here he is, exiting 221B, face drawn and shoulders tense.

Mrs Hudson had told John that Mycroft had been paying for the flat to be kept - dusted and aired from time to time, but never emptied and never cleaned entirely. He can't blame the older Holmes for being unable to deal with the contents and the remnants of his brother's life, but it does seem a bit excessive. He could have sent a team of his minions to just pack it all.

On the other hand, humans deal with grief in different ways, and Mycroft's method, if expensive, is not socially or personally harmful. With his level of wealth, he can be allowed certain little foibles, like keeping his late brother's flat occupied. A poorer man would be called crazy - Mycroft is, well - eccentric.

"Mycroft."

"John."

They greet each other warily, the taller man at the top of the stairs and the shorter at the bottom, silent and uncertain outside of the tentative structures of sometimes-shared working environment.

"You visit Mrs Hudson then?"

"Yes, I make it a point to check on her from time to time" John shrugs lightly. "She needs company and she needs someone to look after her, on occasion. I have time... Why not help an old friend."

"And you socialise with the DCI, from what I've heard" it isn't a question, and not purely a statement either. Something akin to a check-in, attempt to establish a common ground.

_Are you surviving? How are you doing? Should I be worried for my dead brother's only friend?_

"Greg asks me to have a look at some cases that may benefit from my input. And you? Doing fine?"

_Are you being a Holmes? Not eating, not sleeping? Or do you allow yourself to be a human?_

Mycroft nods slowly and starts down the stairs, carrying a large box under his arm.

"Came for some photos I promised I'd fetch for our parents. Still can't say where most of them went, but..." he shrugs and smiles thinly. "I can give them at least some little consolation."

"Something is missing from the flat?"

That doesn't sound good.

"No, it's more... of a challenge for me, to go there. It's nothing. Just..."

But there is something, something about Mycroft that makes John first squint a bit and then look away. Something uncertain. Something that isn't quite grief, actually. More of a colour of fear, stress, constant vigilance - well, on par with his (their?) job, of course, but why here, why in his brother's old flat?

_Or maybe, why in the face of his brother's old flatmate and best friend?_

John feels as if someone had taken a thick slab of wavy glass that had been covering his window into the world until just then and moved it away, letting him see clearly, at long last. Well, living first with the greatest detective in England and then with the Sorcerer Supreme for prolonged periods of time does make one a bit more insightful than the average bear.

Mycroft has been hiding something, something that made a permanent impression on his soul and mind. It's about as plain as a neon sign over his head. He has been hiding it, not for his own good or profit - and that much would be obvious to anyone who knew him - but for someone else's sake.

John inhales with a small hiss.

There aren't many people for whom Mycroft would agree to keep a life-altering secret (and this was life-altering, judging by how he now trembles internally and how his whole mien had changed in the last months and what the energy coming off him tasted like). Actually, apart from his parents, Mycroft has, to John's knowledge, nobody else in this world. No partner, wife, girlfriend, boyfriend. Nobody in London can say they are the British Government's squeeze.

Yet somewhere out there is one person who can say that the British Government cares for them, as much as he can care for one specific person.

And if that person is not Sherlock Holmes, John will eat Wong's old sandals, without sauce or salt.

That sudden clarity overwhelms him and he leans on the wall as Mycroft passes by him. He can't stop himself, but he touches the taller man's hand and sends a small bolt of energy - something they had worked on with Stephen and apparently - as doctors - they are particularly skilled to do - a little magical pick-me-up. In essence, it is giving someone a portion of your own life energy, which would be dangerous for an unskilled magician, but quite safe for a fully educated Warlock. And rather beneficial to the unknowing recipient.

The fact that it also allows John to scan Mycroft for potential health risks (none, bar slight anaemia if he doesn't stop neglecting his rest) and to track him in an unobtrusive way is just a bonus.

"Have a good afternoon, Mycroft" he smiles softly. Now that he knows what he knows... It is only a matter of time. "Get out of that office before midnight sometimes. Maybe take a weekend off. Even you need a break from time to time."

The British Government eyes him suspiciously, but the months spent with Stephen and Wong taught John a few small skills and one of them is the absolutely oblivious smile he can paste onto his face at will, masking any other emotion he might otherwise betray.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say you _care_ , doctor Watson" he says softly.

"I do _care_ , Mycroft. On several levels, I'd say. Once a doctor, always a doctor."

He sees the taller man frown and then shake his head.

_Unsure? Not understanding?_

"Ah, yes. That. Are you planning to return to your profession any time soon? Your medical licence is up to date, I've noticed, but you seem not to be in any hurry to find new employment in your chosen specialty."

_Ah, fishing, are you?_

"Not for the time being. My therapy is still ongoing and I'd rather be at my best before I try to find some new place. Locum work... Useful, but not all that satisfying, I'm afraid. I'm thinking about taking some MSF assignments, but for that I need to be a bit more able, physically. Having an attack of tremors in the field is not advisable."

"Certainly, certainly. Well, in case you need any support - contacts, recommendations? - let me know, please. I will do what I can to help... Although, well, helping Doctors Without Borders would take you quite far away from London, wouldn't it? I thought you preferred the city life. New York seemed to agree with you, too."

John allows himself a small smile.

"So did Afghanistan, after a fashion" he looks away and sighs. "Not much left for me in London - well, apart from taking care of Stephen's house, of course. And retraining myself to use my arm again, properly."

"I could..." but the powerful man trails off, as if unsure of the reception.

_Unsure, my ass. He is baiting me into asking._

John smiles, just as blandly as Mycroft on his best day.

"If you wanted to pick some... worthy work... I could put you in contact with an acquaintance of mine who works with the veterans."

_Ah. The shiny bit. Work with veterans, Doctor Watson, isn't this what you wanted? To be helpful? Save your fellow soldiers?_

_I see you now, Mycroft Holmes._

He shakes his head lightly.

"Thank you, but no. I will gladly consult on their care, obviously, but as long as I don't regain full mobility, I'd rather not commit to anything I cannot properly fulfil. I'm not in a need of money, Mycroft, don't worry."

"Ah" the pale eyes sharpen. "Is you new _friend_ paying you for... estate management duties, then?"

_Ah-ha. That was supposed to hurt._

"Stephen is providing me with enough funds to support the property. I am being paid by the organisation we both work for. As you can see" John nodded to his new, well-cut slacks "it is a comfortable situation. I am _fine_ , Mycroft."

The lips pressed into a thin line.

"But are you, in fact, fine, John?"

The voice actually _worried_.

"I am quite, quite well. I have work to keep me occupied. I have time to visit friends. I'm living a reasonably comfortable life, due to my current job. No, I'm not ready to go back to being a doctor, but I will get there one day. Now please, stop beating around the bush, Mycroft, and ask the question you want to ask."

Eyes closed, tense. Whole body tense.

"If I had a patient for you that needs dedicated care, would you be willing to take him on?"

John's brain stops. He wasn't expecting that.

He had only worked out that Sherlock was alive minutes ago.

"I need to know this, John. I need to know, if I took you to a patient, right now, this hour. Someone who would require your utmost attention, would you..." his words fail "...would you be willing to cast aside everything you are doing and help him?"

His heart actually skips a beat. Quite literally.

"Mycroft?"

The older man is not looking at him, but at the box he is holding. The box that does not, in fact, contain any photos. That much John guesses immediately. He reaches out and pulls the lid off.

Sherlock's toiletry kit. Electric shaver. Shampoo. His balled-up dressing gown.

"John."

Pleading. The British Government is begging him.

_Ah, Stephen. Stephen, you bad, bad man._

_A powerful man doesn't just ask for help from anyone. He demands, he orders and he expects. He only pleads of ones that are more powerful than he is._

"How bad?"

Mycroft closes his eyes and shakes his head, just slightly.

"Take me to him. Now."


End file.
